Ken KorczakMy Frightening Night with the Devil Worshippers Part 2
July 19th 2008 20:02
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Note to Reader: This is Part 2 -- Please See Part 1 here on Strange Corridore
By Ken Korczak
After dragging Bucky out of the anti-church where a squadron of extremely obese women waited -- for what? -- I was fairly desperate to find Sparky who had the car keys and my ticket out of this hell hole.
The chanters were still around the fire, rocking, bobbing their heads, mumbling. Now someone had tossed a few car tires onto the fire creating a greasy, gritty smoke that roiled and boiled like oil into the fresh Minnesota air, fouling it with an industrial stench.
But air pollution was the least of my worries because suddenly I spotted Sparky! He had taken his place around the fire, robes and all! Sparky was one of them! It became clear that he had planned to come here all along -- and that he had tricked Bucky and I into coming as well. And I had to wonder -- why? For what?
Sparky had not only joined the devil dudes, but he seemed a ringleader. He wasn't chanting, but from somewhere he had produced an old battered guitar which he not so much "played", but tortured like a captured animal. He was hitting the strings hard, forcing violent, screeching discords from it, running his bony fingers up and down the guitar neck, like he wanted to choke that neck.
So much for my ride out of here! Now what? I looked back at Bucky, who was up on his hands and knees, vomiting violently. And I had to wonder, based on Bucky's bizarre behavior, if he was in on this too. But no, I quickly dismissed that idea. Bucky was a good friend.
As for Sparky, I didn't actually known him. I mean, he was a guy from my around my town, but I had never hung out with him. Nobody did. He was a loner, an odd ball. I had always assumed that he was a dope addict. But obviously, Sparky was into something much more sinister than mere drugs.
My next idea was to rouse Bucky and have him go punch Sparky in the head. Then we could get his car keys and leave him and his Beelzebub buddies to their own twisted devices. Why did I want Bucky to punch Sparky in the head? Let me put is this way: When you need someone punched in the head, and the job needs to be done right, Bucky is exactly the kind of guy you want to punch someone in the head. When Bucky punches someone in the head, they stay punched in the head.
But after puking, Bucky had slumped back down and became an incoherent sack of wasted humanity on the ground. I shook him violently -- but it was no use. He was in a booze induced coma.
In the meantime, something ominous was building. From the anti-church, the fat women started to raise their voices -- blood-curdling wails, moans and high-pitched shrieks. At the same time, the ceremony around the fire was growing more intense, more agitated. Some of the robed figures started getting up, raising their arms up and down, making herky-jerky motions, sitting back down, then jumping up again.
Looking around I saw other cars scattered at the outer edges of the firelight. I thought about finding one with a key, taking it, and splitting. But then I thought: "Geez, I've been at a Satanic shindig for 20 minutes and I'm already contemplating grand theft auto! What's the matter with me? The very air here is infected with evil!"
Even though I would have been justified in "borrowing" a car that night, I decided against it. Only one option was left -- leave on foot. The idea of walking 20 miles down an isolated dirt road in the black night through thick forest was not especially appealing. The woods of Minnesota are filled with all manner of critters -- gigantic moose, black bears, wolves, wolverines -- some of which would fancy me a tasty treat. Still, I liked my chances better with Mother Nature's sweet creatures than with this demented pack of nitwits.
So I set off down the road. The darkness was inky. I could barely see the outline of the dirt road looming off through the trees. Yet, the damp night air and the aroma of pine was a welcome relief from that acrid stench of burning rubber. And to be honest, 20 miles was not that much to me. I had been a long distance runner since junior high school, and I could probably click off that distance in less than three hours. So I took off at a light jog -- but after 10 minutes, my conscious got the better of me.
I thought about Bucky. I had abandoned my friend back there, lying near the door of the anti-church. What might they do with him? I stopped, gritted my teeth, turned, and headed back. Little did I know, the very worst part of the night was about to begin.
The fire was still burning when I returned, but to my surprise, there was no one around it now. The putrid rubber smoke was swirling around the grounds, scattered by a shifting breeze. It stung my eyes and assaulted my nose. I walked toward the anti-church where I had left Bucky, hoping he was still lying there. There was no sign of him. As I got closer to the anti-church, it became clear where everyone else had gone.
From inside the church came a cacophony of raucous voices -- wild laughter, exhilarated shouts, manic hooting calls. I decided to walk around the anti-church to look for Bucky. The deranged voices coming from the building were maddening. I was nervous and jumpy. My skin crawled.
Moving around the building, I could see dingy light glowing from a row of basement windows. I knew that I had to creep up to one of those windows and take a look inside.
I had no idea what I would see. I'll tell you what I most expected to see -- and orgy going on between the fire chanters and the fat women. What I hoped I would not see was my friend Bucky strung up down there, perhaps the subject of a human sacrifice. But I had to look. I had to see if Bucky was down there.
I got down on my hands and knees and crept toward a basement window of the anti-church. The windows were grimy and filmed with a coating of streaky black dirt. I was hesitant to rub the window to clear away a spot because I didn't want anyone inside to see me -- but I did so and peered inside. I was flabbergasted by what I saw happening down in that basement!
Here is what was going on: All the men and obese women where standing in a crude circle and they were tossing around an object between them. But it wasn't an object -- it was a baby, a naked baby. They were tossing the baby back and forth randomly, like a bunch of six-graders standing in a circle playing hot potato with a soccer ball. As they did so, they were laughing and shouting and calling out: "Kill the baby Jesus! Kill the baby Jesus! Kill the baby Jesus!"
For the hundredth time that night, I said to myself: "Could this really be happening?"
I tried to get a better look at the baby. Could it have been a doll? Wait! Maybe it was is just a doll! I kept looking. Damn! It looks like a real baby! In the murky candlelight which illuminated the basement, and through the dirty window, I could not be 100 percent sure if they were tossing around a live baby, or just a very realistic looking doll. But what if it was a real baby?
Remember, this was long before the days of cell phones so I couldn't have simply called 911. What if it was a real baby? What could I do? Storm down there and snatch it away from 30 or 40 crazed devil worshippers? Not likely! But I kept asking myself: What if it was a real, human baby? What could be done? What?
I kept looking as I crouched there in the dark. I kept trying to determine if they were tossing around a real baby or a doll.
Suddenly, I felt a hard, heavy hand slam down on my back. I yelled, sprang to my feet, whirled around, swung my fist as hard as I could -- and smashed Bucky right in the jaw -- sending him crashing to the ground!
"Holy crap!" I shouted.
I picked him up. "You crazy son-of-a-(bleep)! Come on, let's get out of here!"
Bucky was still not sober, and now he also had the imprint of my fist on his face. I guess I was a better puncher of heads than I thought. Anyway, as soon as I stood him up, he would slump back down. I kept at him, though. When he fell, I got him to his feet and moved him along, stumbling and falling back to the road. It took at least 15 minutes to get Bucky past where the fire was burning. Just as we began to head up the road, I heard the doors of the anti-church burst open violently.
I turned, and to my deep dismay, saw the devil worshippers stampeding out of the church. The first thing I thought: "Had they seen me at the window? Were they coming after us?"
They were yelling and screaming and scattering, jostling and elbowing each other, practically falling over each other. But instead of running toward us, they dispersed in all directions, running frantically. They all plunged into the blackness of the woods.
Bucky had fallen down again, so I just sat beside him for a moment. One of the robed figures sprinted close by us, not more than 10 yards away. He plunged into the woods. I heard the branches and brush tearing at his robes, twigs snapping under his feet. Then he was gone. They were all gone. All was silent.
I got Bucky on his feet again. He was sobering a little.
"Come on, I said," let's walk."
Bucky said, "Walk? Why? Where's Sparky?"
I said, "Just walk, you moron! I've got something to tell you about Sparky!"
We walked a few yards up the road -- and again -- I had to stop. I had to go back there one more time. Of course, the reason was obvious. I wanted to see if there was a dead baby in that basement.
I said to Bucky: "You stand right here. If you move from this spot, I'm going to track you down, hunt you like an animal, and kill you."
Bucky said, "Gee, what are you so pissy up about?"
I said, "Shut up," and proceeded back to the anti-church.
Since my tale is already overlong, let me just say I found nothing back in the church -- no baby, no evidence of a baby, or anything else. It was deserted.
Bucky and I spent the rest of that long, endless night on a 20-mile hike back to our cars. The sun was up by the time we got back, and by then the events of the evening had already begun to seem like a bad dream. But it wasn't a dream. It really happened. I was there.
My story is true.
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